The Loser
by bisexualcharliedavis
Summary: "Charlie?" He asked, softly. Charlie doesn't respond until he's taken another drag of his cigarette. The pause seems to echo in the soft noise of the common room. "You should have told me you were coming, Lucien." He said, looking into his lap at the previously unseen photo. "I would have dressed up."
1. Chapter 1

**/A/N ahhhhhhh yeah IDK man. Just a few notes, I know that sociopath isn't a word used in current medicine and stuff, but this is set in the 60s so yah. I also know that Charlie's use of the word is incorrect some of the time, but again, that was on purpose. Just lettin' ya know. Warnings for multiple suicide attempts, institutionalization, torture, character death and lots of Charlie Davis crying. I ain't claiming to be no expert, and I know that a lot of moments are highly implausible but like...W/E. Enjoy.**

...

"He's over there." The nurse said softly, indicating to the man who was looking out the window, a cigarette burning away in his left hand.  
"Thank you." Blake smiled, and left her to walk up to him. Charlie didn't respond when he sat in the chair opposite to him. If he squinted his eyes, it might look like things had turned out differently.

The thick circles of scarring went around both of his wrists, and Blake knows if he were to lift the tan pant leg then he would find the exact same marks on both of his ankles. In the light filtering through the rainy window, it seemed like he might even be remorseful, but sociopaths, he reminded himself, don't feel remorse.

"Charlie?" He asked, softly. Charlie doesn't respond until he's taken another drag of his cigarette. The pause seems to echo in the soft noise of the common room.  
"You should have told me you were coming, Lucien." He said, looking into his lap at the previously unseen photo. "I would have dressed up."  
"You knew I was coming." Blake replied.

"I did." He agrees, "You always come on the same day, at the same time to ask me the same question."

"The nurses are telling me that you keep coming up with ways to hide that you aren't taking your medication."  
"And so what if I am?"  
"That's dangerous."

"They make me so nauseous that I want to die."

"They're keep you calm."  
"No. Smoking keeps me calm." Blake rolls his eyes and looks into Charlie's lap.

"What's that?"  
"A photo." He said, and then held it up for Blake to see.

Embalmed behind glass, the photo was of Lawson and the two of them, Charlie is a blurred figure, hunched over in laughter between the pair of them. Blake used to have the same photo sitting on his mantle, until Danny cut Charlie out of it with a pair of scissors.

"Danny Parks sends them to me once a year, photos of him. On the back, he writes 'What did you do to Matthew Lawson.'" Charlie said, rubbing his thumb over the image.

"They all think they know you, Charlie. But I actually know you, and I know that this isn't the real you."

"The real me?" He asked, looking up at Blake. Five years of this place showed clearly on a once youthful face. Despite only being thirty two, he had a streak of white growing up at the front of his hair, and crows feet by his eyes. Heavy bags stained under his eyes from chronic lack of sleep.

"I know that you're haunted by what you saw, haunted enough that you even took the blame for it." Charlie raised an eyebrow at him. "I know that's why you keep all of those photos. You miss him. You think about him all the time."  
"You're right." He agreed, "I do think about him all the time. I think about what it felt like to kick him in the ribs. What his blood felt like on my hands. What he looked like, when he was dying. I think about that a lot. I think about how warm he felt on my fingers and what it felt like to sit on top of him and punch him until I broke his teeth." Blake looked disgusted. He blinks back what appear to be tears, and puts his hand on top of Charlie's. Charlie pulls his away the way that he always does.

"Charlie." He breathes. Charlie looked down at the photo again.

"I miss that feeling." He murmurs. Blake looks pale in the face as Charlie takes another drag of his cigarette, and then flicks the ashes into an ash tray on the table in front of him.

"You screamed when they dragged you in here, after the diagnosis, that you didn't do it. You pulled so hard against the bonds that you almost cut your wrists open. Sounds very innocent to me."  
"I'm a sociopath. I'm good at manipulating people." He said, hollowly.

"I know this is a show." Blake said, the way he always does.

"Do you know what they say to me? I'm sick."  
"I'm a doctor."  
"I'm sick in the head, to do that to another human being."

"Are you?" Charlie offers him no response, just looks down at the photo.  
"Perhaps you are of some use to me, after all, Lucien." He said, absently.

"Always happy to help, Charlie."  
"My headaches get worse." He told him, "Can you prescribe me something for them?"

"I did that two years ago, and you took the whole bottle at once."  
"That was two years ago, Doctor." He said, "I'm getting better now. Who would have known, that strapping someone to a table and electrocuting them was the best way to fix sociopathy."

"They aren't meant to do that to you."

"Well you aren't in control when you're not here. I'm at the mercy of the staff." He scoffs. "Can you fix my headaches."  
"No, I'm afraid not." He murmured, and folded his arms over his chest while Charlie stared at him. He eventually looked down to his photograph. "Someone tried so hard to resuscitate him that they broke three of his ribs."  
"That would be Bill Hobart."

"Bill Hobart didn't know how to perform CPR properly in 1962."

"Doesn't sound like my problem." Charlie said, idly, and then put out his cigarette in the ashtray on the table.  
"Aren't you tired of all this?" He asked, as Charlie brought a hand to his chapped lips to gently pull at a piece of skin. Charlie didn't respond, just stared him down for a moment, and then looked down to his photograph.

"Aren't you?" He asked, softly. "Asking the same questions year after year. "

"Only when you get tired of lying. I know you, Charlie. I know that you would never hurt him."

"They wanted a monster to blame this on, and who would I be if I denied them the pleasure?" He whispered, before passing Blake the photo. "I'm done with this one." Blake accepted it, and looked at the faces on the slightly worn photograph. "Parks will send me a new one today. Keep it." Blake put it into his breast pocket, and sighed at Charlie softly. "You promised Mrs Beazley you wouldn't come this year. You're supposed to be home in an hour."  
"How would you know that?"  
"There's only so much one woman can take. And you've been looking at the clock since you came in."  
"I hadn't even noticed."  
"I know. Go home, Doctor. Sometimes, you just have to cut your losses. Sometimes, you can't save people." Blake looks at him rather intently for a moment.

"What happened, in 1962, Charlie?" Charlie looked back, eyes hollow and apathetic.

"I beat Matthew Lawson to death unprovoked." Blake looks unconvinced, and stands.  
"I'll see what I can do about the ECT." Charlie doesn't reply, just looks back out the window at the grass. "Do you go out there, often?"  
"I'm not allowed, given that I'm actually serving a life sentence for murder."

"I'll see what I can do about that, as well."  
"Go home, Blake." There's a pause, and Blake sighs softly, reaching out one hand and putting it on Charlie's face, running his thumb over the three scars that cut though his left eye. Charlie shuts his eyes and moved his head away.

"What happened to you?" He breathes, and when Charlie offers him no reply, he slowly walks away.

…

He waits four days for Blake to come though for him. He doesn't, but that's alright, because Charlie had a backup plan anyway, he always did. He told the doctors and nurses that he was simply throwing away the medication that he didn't take, but nothing could be further from the truth. In a stolen plastic cup, he'd hoarded all the medication that he'd been able to hide. He removed it from under the bed, and then sorted the pills into three separate piles. He retrieved water from the sink in the bathroom, and then sat down on the bed, looking at his pills. He decided, at the last moment, to write a note, and if all went according to plan, then he should be in Blake's house next time he opened his eyes.

…

"I can't believe you brought him into this house." Danny said, looking at Charlie with unimpressed eyes.

"He didn't do it. "

"Then who else would have killed him, huh? Hobart?"  
"Perhaps."

"He confessed. You diagnosed him."

"I was trying to protect him."  
"From what?"  
"Himself. So something like this didn't happen." Blake said, turning to face Danny with angry eyes. "He's tried to kill himself, four times."  
"Good. He deserves it." Blake looks like he sort of wants to hit Danny, but he doesn't, simply checks to make sure that Charlie's limp wrist is protected from the handcuffs attaching him to the bed. "What if he kills us too, huh?" Blake sighs thoughtfully, and then gently smooths the blanket over Charlie's chest.

"That's why he's attached to the bed."

…

"Why am I here, rather then at Lady Elizabeth?" He asked, as Blake shone a small light into his eye.

"Because I'm the police surgeon and I think this is best for you."  
"Ah."

"Why do you keep trying to kill yourself?"  
"Anything would be better the ECT." he said, rather grimly. "I'll ask again. Why am I here?"  
"Because clearly having any measure of freedom makes you want to die so someone needs to watch over you."  
"And that person is you?"  
"Exonerating circumstances. And you mentioned me in your note."

"You're the only person who still seems to think I deserve to be treated like a human being. My own mother won't even talk to me."  
"I thought you were a sociopath?"  
"I am, but even sociopaths can aspire to hold onto family." Blake nods, and sits down in the chair he'd set up next to the bed.  
"Well, I still want to know what happened in '62." He told Charlie, grimly. Charlie rolled over as well as he could.  
"And I keep telling you what happened."  
"You're crazy if you think I believe it"  
"Well I'm not at Lady Elizabeth because I'm sane, and after all, Doctor. You diagnosed me."

"At the time, it was to keep you out of prison while I examined the case."  
"And what did you find?"

"Evidence to the contrary of Bill Hobart's recount."  
"And what did Munro do?"  
"Use you as a scape goat."  
"Why do you insist on being like that?"  
"Like what?"  
"Not believing me." He sighed. "I've seen specilist after specilist who all say the same thing."  
"What do they say?"  
"I'm a murderer who is incapable of feeling remorse."  
"They're all wrong." Charlie scoffed.

"No they aren't. You just can't admit that you liked a sociopath."

"You're just very accepting of it all."  
"I killed my friend for no reason, I have to be a sociopath, or I'd have already killed myself from guilt." Blake scoffs this time, but offers him no reply.

…

"I hate you." Danny informed him from the chair next to his bed. Charlie examined him carefully.

"You're Danny Parks? Huh. I was expecting something more impressive from the photographs you send me.

"I hate you." Danny repeated. "I hate policemen who kill their own."

"Hobart's taken you under his wing, hasn't he?" Charlie asked.

"You killed my friend."  
"I did."  
"And now I'm going to kill you."  
"Finally." Charlie sighed, "Someone who can do it without fucking it up. What are you going to do? Poison me? Bludgeon me with a hammer? Strangle me?"

"I'm going to shoot you, but not here. Auntie Jean would have to wash the sheets."

"How do you intend to move me from the bed?" Danny holds up the the key to the handcuffs.

"I told the officers outside that I had it for the night, so it's just you and me, Charlie."

"Good. A private death, even better. Well you'd better get on with it, Parksy." Danny spat at him, and then undid the handcuffs.  
"You must really be messed up in the head if you're not scared of dying."

"I've been dead for years anyway." He said, somewhat cryptically. Danny, however, didn't have time for that, and forced him to his feet, and then out to the car.

..

He drove Charlie out into the bushland surrounding the house, and lined him up against the tree. Charlie set a cigarette between his lips. "Got a light, Parksy?"

"Why?"  
"One last cigarette." Danny rolled his eyes, and lined up his shot.

"Hurry up then, or Blake will realize you've gone." Danny's hand starts to shake. "Are you going to take the shot?" Charlie asks, moving closer, "Come on!"

"Shut up!" Danny shouts back,  
"Why, scared someone's gonna hear ya' Parksy?" He asked, intimidating Danny's accent. He moved closer, stooping down so that the gun was resting on the bridge of his nose. "Come on! Do it! I know you want to!" Danny looked towards the house. "Shoot me, come on!" Danny lowers his hand, but Charlie grabs it. "Come on, Parksy, take the shot, here look I'll line it up for you!" Charlie put his hands on either side of the gun, keeping it lined up with his chest. "Shoot me!"  
"I can't!" He screamed, trying to pull his hand away. Charlie kept his hands on the gun, keeping it closer to his chest.

"Then I will!" He screamed, and somewhere, in the collision, managed to get a shot off. He stumbled backwards, and Danny ran to the house, screaming for Blake.

…

After Danny was gone, Charlie sat up and sighed softly. He's managed to shoot himself in the shoulder, which was what he set out to do. He had no intention of dying tonight, not yet anyway. Danny had left the car, making it easy for him to escape the woods, even with only one functioning hand.

He starts the drive to Munro's flat.

…

"You'll never get away with this."  
"I'm a sociopath who's gone off his medication, Munro, I can't be held accountable for anything I do." he said, taking a seat on the chair in front of him. Tied to the bed, Munro hardly looked as threatening as he used to. Despite only having one functioning arm (that he'd half heartedly bandaged with Munro's supplies) Charlie was easily able to tie Munro to the bed, and secure him there. He took another drag of his cigarette. He never used to smoke, he thinks, leaning back in his chair, and crossing one leg over the other. "But of coooourse, if you tell me what I want to know, then I might not totally eviscerate you."

"We both know that you'd never do anything to help me."  
"Hm." Was his only reply, as he leant forward, and ashed his cigarette onto Munro's bare chest. He supposed that it was lucky for him that Munro slept in only pants. He blew smoke into the air, and watched his captive struggle rather pitifully against his bonds.

"Do you know I struggled so hard against my bonds, that I still have scars?" he asked, Munro, tugging up his sleeve again to reveal the thick scars lining both of his wrists. "I'd like to see you do that to yourself." He commented, "I'd like you to hurt even slightly as much as I have, that would make me happy." He sighed, and took another long drag of his cigarette.

"You're crazy."  
"I know." He replied, "And you made sure that everyone else knew a well." He murmured.  
"Why wait five years?"  
"I wanted you to think you were safe." Charlie murmured, as he settled back in his chair. "I wanted you to think that you'd gotten away with murder." Munro scoffs and continues pulling on the sheets Charlie had used to tie him to the bed. "Why?"  
"Why what?"  
"Why did you frame me? You disliked Hobart as much as any of us."  
"I chose Hobart. I couldn't let them see that my choice was a bad one."  
"And me?"  
"Well. You were just collateral." Charlie nods, and then leans forward, and put the cigarette out on Munro's bare chest.

"I see." He said, watching the man writher and scream. "Collateral." Munro just yells, until Charlie grows bored with him and heads to get himself a glass of water.

He returns when the yelling has turned to pitiful whimpers. "Are you quite finished?" he sighed, before turning to face the window when he heard a car pull up outside. Munro starts to laugh rather manically.  
"You'll never get away with this!"

"I was expecting Blake later." He murmured, thoughtfully.

"They'll throw you into Jail this time, Davis, you'll never be free."

"I wasn't hoping to be free." he replied, taking a sip from his glass of water. "I just wanted you to be dead." He murmured, producing the gun that Danny had left when he shot himself, and aiming it squarely at Munro's head.

When he's about to pull the trigger, Blake and Danny crash though the door.  
"Charlie it wasn't him he didn't kill Matthew!" Blake shouted, aiming his own gun at Charlie. (And by his own gun, it was actually the gun that belonged to Jean's late husband.)

"I know, it was me." Charlie replied, evenly.  
"I know it wasn't you. I know it was Hobart, in a fit of rage. I know you walked in on it, I know you tried your best to save him, I know you performed CPR on him for at least fifteen minutes, I know you broke three of his ribs trying to save him. I know you watched him die. I know you aren't a sociopath."  
"You should have said that five years ago when I begged you, I begged you to help me." He hissed, "I cried for you and got down on my knees and you laughed at me." He said, tears starting to prick his eyes, his throat aching with concealed sobs.

"I know. I was wrong. I should have trusted you I know that, Charlie put the gun down and we can talk."  
"About what, Lucien?"

"I know that I can't give you back the last five years of your life, but I can help you get back the rest of it, but you have to put the gun down, Charlie."  
"He ruined me."  
"I know he did." Blake said, reaching his hand out to Charlie. "But I can help you, I promise."

"Help me?" He asked, tears now leaking out of his eyes and down his face. "I needed your help five years ago."  
"I know. I know I can't make up for what I did, but this isn't the answer, Charlie. What will killing Munro do?"  
"He'll know. Hobart, he'll know. He'll know that he's next."

"You need to put the gun down, Charlie. I don't want to shoot you but I will if you don't put it down. I can help you."  
"And then what? I'll have nothing left. No family. No friends. Just me. At least if I kill him, then he'll have nothing with me."  
"You have me." Blake whispered, his hand still out, still right where Charlie could reach it. "But I need you to give me the gun, Charlie."

"I have nothing left."  
"I know."  
"He ruined me."  
"I know."

"I want to be dead."

"I know." Blake said, his voice cracking slightly. There is a pause that seemed to last a lifetime, as Charlie's fingers twitched on the trigger, and Blake's hand twitches in time, before Charlie set the gun in Blakes hand. Blake threw it across the room, along with his own, and pulled Charlie into his arms as they fell to the floor.

Charlie cried loudly and heartily into Blake's shoulder with what felt like years of welled up grief and emotion. Blake kept one hand on the back of Charlie's head, not trying to shush him or calm him, just allowing him to sob for his loss openly. At some point, his eyes find Munro's and he's never felt such a burning hate before.

The crying doesn't stop until the backup he told Danny to call for arrives. Charlie's sobs and almost shrieks seem to match with the sirens. He keeps a firm hold on the shaking man as other officers rush in. Only moves to hold him even closer when he sees Hobart amongst the officers in the room. Even then, the crying doesn't stop, only slows, becomes slightly softer. He keeps crying, and Blake wonders if it will ever stop. Not because he is tired of sitting on the floor holding him. (Charlie deserves everything Blake can give him) but because he doesn't want Charlie to hurt himself. When the officers get tired of waiting, only then, does he try and get Charlie to stand. "We should move." He murmured, gently pulling Charlie's unresisting form to his feet, and then putting his coat over Charlie's shoulders. Charlie wipes at his wet face and pinches he bottom of his nose in an attempt to clear his airway. Blake passes him a hankerchief, before they follow the officers outside to a blue car waiting to take them to the station.

…

It takes a further six months for anything to really change. Munro is arrested, Hobart is arrested but Charlie's not set free, not right away.

Blake visits everyday, and today is no different. Charlie is sitting in the chair he always sits in, with the photo that Danny sent him sitting in his lap. He's not smoking, and Blake is fairly sure that's a good thing. "Charlie." He smiled, taking a seat next to him on the couch.  
"Lucien." He greeted.  
"The doctors tell me you've made a marked improvement."  
"Good." He murmured, still not looking up from the photo. Blake looked over at the photo, and gently removes it from his fingers. Charlie follows with his eyes, and then eventually lookes up to Blake's profile with a little smile.

"I'm going on trial next week."  
"I know."  
"They won't let me go."  
"Where would you go?"  
"I'd find you."

"Would you?" Charlie nods. "Will you come, to the trial?"  
"Of course." Blake smiles.  
"Thank you." Charlie murmured, and after a second, puts his hand on top of Blake's. Blake changes his hands to cover Charlie's with both of his. It's an improvement, he thinks, as Charlie looks away from the photo, and outside onto the grass again.

..

The trial comes, and goes. Munro is given a shorter sentence then Hobart, who is given life. Charlie doesn't seem too upset. Munro never presses any charges against Charlie, and Blake is left wondering if that's because he thought he deserved it. Charlie never tells Blake how he felt about the trial. In fact he never really tells Blake much of anything, but he seemed to be getting better, and Blake decides to count his blessing.

…

And then Charlie is put on trial. After a great deal of deliberation, he is declared mentally incompetent, but not a killer.

…

He is then put under Blake's guardian ship, which he suspects has less to do with Charlie, and more covering up a previous blunder, but he also can't find it much in it to care. He still has an arm in a sling when he comes back to the Blake house. He still freezes up when Mattie cries and gives him a hug, still answers in a monotone when Mrs Beazley asks what he would like for dinner, still gives Danny a side eye when he sees him, but it's a start.

…

"I'm sorry I tried to kill you." Danny said, from behind him. Charlie didn't even turn to look at him, just took a sip of the tea that Blake had given him.

"It's fine. I did manipulate you into it, really. I'm a sociopath, that's sort of what we do."

"I know you aren't. Blake told me." Danny said, moving around to face the wayward sergeant.

"It's fine, Parsky." He smiled, knowing full well how much that annoyed him.

"You're a real asshole." Danny said, after a moment.  
"Sure am." He offers, 'But really. I don't care. If anything you probably helped me get here."  
"I know. I just...Wanted to hear you say it." Danny said, standing awkwardly.

"Are you going to stand there like a fool or sit and watch television with me?" Charlie asked, after a moment. "You're standing in my way." There's a moment of silence, before Danny sits next to him. Neither of them say anything about Matthew Lawson, but they don't need to.

…

In another life, Charlie might have been ashamed of how much time he spends crying. But now, he simply understands it to be part of his grieving process. He's deeply grateful that Blake is at least understanding. Somehow, that makes rocking up in his bedroom with tear stained cheeks that much easier to bare.

Blake holds him tightly as they sit on the side of his bed, and Charlie does his best not to choke on the thick grief that seems to have been poured so deeply into his lungs. They sit like that for a long time, the only noise he can hear is his own sobs, and the beating of Blake's heart in his chest, calm, soothing. He can feel a hand on the back of his head, smoothing his hair and trying to assure him without words that it was okay.

Eventually, he calms down enough to sit back and try to breathe without gasping, and every night, Blake takes his face in both hands, and thumbs away the tears from his cheeks, only pausing over the scar briefly. It's never really made clear how he got the scar, but Blake has a pretty good idea. "Do you feel better, Charlie?" He asks, softly. Of course he nods, even though he really doesn't. Blake then pulls back the sheets, and welcomes him into his bed, and holds him close. Charlie holds him back. "He'd be proud of you." Every night, exactly the same, Blake reminds him that Lawson would be proud of him. And every night he follows it by "Are you?" there's always a pause, and then Blake replied, the way he always does.  
"Of course."


	2. Chapter 2

/Another fic down more on the way. I would also like to say that im a bit sorry I write so much fanfiction. Not too sorry, just a little I guess. IDK. I feel bad because I have writtten more then anyone else ahhhhhhhHHHHHH. I'll be over here, having a crisis if you need me I guess. Leave a review if you liked it and all that. I'm aware that the ending does little to resolve the main conflicts blah blah blah. Again: I know that the terms used in this fic are outdated, but the fic is set in 1950's-1960's Australia. Warnings are the same as the first chapter.

When he's about to pull the trigger, Blake and Danny crash though the door.  
"Charlie it wasn't him he didn't kill Matthew!" Blake shouted, aiming his own gun at Charlie. (And by his own gun, it was actually the gun that belonged to Jean's late husband.)

"I know, it was me." Charlie replied, evenly.  
"I know it wasn't you. I know it was Hobart, in a fit of rage. I know you walked in on it, I know you tried your best to save him, I know you performed CPR on him for at least fifteen minutes, I know you broke three of his ribs trying to save him. I know you watched him die. I know you aren't a sociopath."  
"You should have said that five years ago when I begged you, I begged you to help me." He hissed, "I cried for you and got down on my knees and you laughed at me." He said, tears starting to prick his eyes, his throat aching with concealed sobs.

"I know. I was wrong. I should have trusted you I know that, Charlie put the gun down and we can talk."

"Talk?" Charlie asked, incredulously. "What are we going to talk about Lucien?" He demands. Blake bites down on his lip and keeps his eyes fastened on Charlie's hands holding onto the black barrel of the gun.

"We're going to talk about you. The way we always do. We're going to fix this, and you will feel so much better if you just let me help you!" He pleaded, eyes fastened on Charlie. He keeps his fury filled eyes on Blake.

"He ruined me. Do you know?" He demanded. "He ruined me." Charlie all but screamed.  
"I know, Charlie. I know." Blake insisted. "I know that he was your friend. I know that these last few years have been hard-"  
"Hard?" Charlie asked, with raised eyebrows. "You don't know anything about 'hard'" He scoffed. "If you wanted to help me then you should have spoken up five years ago." He said, voice cracking as tears began to prick at his eyes, threatening to spill over. Blake had to hold back a sigh, he was finally getting though to Charlie, after so long.

"Just put the gun down." Danny said, "And we can talk it out." Charlie looked back up at him and Blake is struck with the feeling that Charlie looks more like a lost child then anything else, which is wrong because he's thirty two, almost thirty three, there's no way that he can be a child anymore. Wide grey eyes water over, tears streak his face.

"You must feel awful right now, Charlie, but I can help you." He murmured, reaching a hand out to him. "I want to help you." Charlie looks down at the hand, then across to Munro.

"He ruined me." He said, hollowly.  
"I know." Blake breathes.  
"Why does he deserve to live, but Matthew Lawson doesn't?" He asked, softly.

"I don't know why fate does what it does, but Charlie this isn't the way.' He said, as kindly as he could, trying to project warmth with his voice to just get Charlie to listen to him.

"I know how you feel, Charlie, I know the fear and the grief and I want to help you, but you have to please, please give me the gun." He said, softly. Charlie continues to look at him with his huge teary eyes. And then he squeezes the trigger twice.

And so does Blake. Danny runs to Munro but Blake gathers Charlie, who has fallen to the floor, into his arms. "Charlie. Charlie look at me." He said, softly, trying to get Charlie's blurred eyes to look at him, and ignoring his haphazard shots into the youngers upper torso. "Look at me." He pleaded, as Charlie's grey eyes tried to find him before settling on something far above his head. "I'm sorry." He whispered, pulling him closer. "Oh God I'm sorry." He breathed, "Oh God."

…

He wakes up.

Blake is quite used to nightmares. He's had them for years but that's the first time he's ever had a dream like that. He looks down to find Charlie with his face pressed tightly against his chest, breathing slowly in his sleep. Blake knew perfectly well that the sleep was not as restful as it was made out to be, he knew Charlie's medication list inside out. (He didn't make him take any of them given that he didn't really need anything but the sleep aides. And that wasn't because he was a sociopath, but rather what he'd endured over the last five years.) He tightened his arms around the younger and let out a soft sigh.

Looking back, this was all his fault. Upon his arrest, Charlie had tried to tell him he was innocent time and time again, but he fell for the same trap everyone else did. Wanting someone to blame for the loss of a friend, and he hadn't truly considered that Charlie was probably in the same boat. It took him two years to really look into it, and when he did, it didn't take him long to pull apart the cover story. Looking at Charlie now, he has no idea why he was diagnosed the way he was. True, it was his diagnosis that made him out to be a sociopath, but why did they listen to him anyway? He was a doctor of medicine, not the brain.

Charlie shifts quietly in his sleep, and Blake rubbed his back with one hand, sighing. He'd known he was taking on a huge responsibility when he agreed to be Charlie's guardian, he was more or less in charge of his life, as terrifying as that was. But it sometimes, to him, felt like he would never see the old Charlie Davis again. He missed that man, and painfully so. He missed the grim comments and lightly sarcastic humor. It was easy to miss when the person was was presented with had gone to such great lengths to seal off their emotions, and appear totally apathetic, towards both himself and the people around him.

He sighed softly, and looked down again. "Sorry." He murmured, for the hundredth time, and tried to fall back asleep.

…

"I didn't expect you to still be in Ballarat." Charlie commented, glancing at Mattie. "You always seemed like you had bigger ambitions." Mattie scoffed, and flipped a page in her book.

"Well I didn't expect you to kill someone but here we are." She said, her tone indicating to him that it was more a joke then a comment about the last five years.  
"Alright, fair point." he said, taking another sip of his tea that Blake seemed to be very intent on forcing upon him. There's a comfortable quiet between them that seems to stretch on and on.

"Hows your shoulder?"  
"It's alright. Hurts a bit when I put any weight on it."  
"Well if you didn't try and rush so fast it wouldn't hurt at all." Charlie scoffed and rolled his eyes.

"I hope you two are being nice!" Jean called from somewhere behind them.

"Of course we are, Mrs Beazley!" Charlie smiled, as Mattie punched him lightly in the leg.

"Sure thing!" She called back, as Charlie smiled into his tea cup. Mattie decided it was nice to see him smile. She'd missed that.

…

The only person who hates Charlie's therapist more then Charlie is probably Blake. Charlie hated every therapist he'd been assigned, swapping between insulting them and ignoring them totally depending on how he felt towards them. It was occasionally downright nasty behaviour, but the more Blake got to know the man the more he agreed with Charlie's view of him. He supposed Charlie's hatred steamed more from the fact that the man was just something thrown at him in a place where he didn't want to be, while struggling with an identity crisis and trying to conceal how he felt.

Blake's hatred came from fact that the man treated Charlie like a child and spoke down to him. Personally, he tried his best to make sure that he didn't treat Charlie like a child because he very much wasn't. And he never acted like a child either so he really didn't know why people felt the need to treat him like that. Charlie hated it, and really, that was more then enough for him.

"Are you coming?" Charlie asked, tapping Blake on the shoulder, and then folding his arms.

"Hm?"  
"To Lady Elizabeth? Are you ready to go?" Charlie asked, slowing down his speech and trying to sound insulting. It didn't work very well.

"Yes, yes." He said, getting to his feet and joining Charlie at the door.

"Good." Charlie offered, with a small nod. "See you soon, Mrs Beazley!" He called, as Blake shrugged on his coat.

"Drive safely!" She called back, as the two of them went out to the car.

…

"I miss him." Charlie murmured, mostly into Blake's pajamas. Lucien looked down at him, and nodded.  
"Me too." Charlie shifted his face, rubbing his nose against Blake's chest and then falling still against him. "Shouldn't you be out by now?"  
"I didn't take them." He murmured. Blake found himself stuck between trying to get Charlie to be open with him about how he felt about Lawson, or to scold him for not taking the medication.  
"If you lie to me, then I'll have no choice but to send you back. I know that you know that." He murmured, pressing his nose into Charlie's sweet smelling hair. "You can't pull anything like you did at the hospital again or they'll take you away from me." He said, softly. "And I know you don't want that."

"I know." Charlie murmured. "I know. I...I know." he said, unable to find the words he was looking for. Blake sighed softly, and took a deep breath in though his nose.

"Be honest with me, Charlie. I know it's hard, but just try." He murmured. "How many doses have you not taken?"  
"Just this one." Blake sighed again.

"I don't want you to go back to that place." He murmured. "You belong here with us. I'd like you to stay here but I can't keep you here if they think for one minute that I'm not doing a good enough job stopping you from ruining yourself."

"I know." Charlie repeated. "I just didn't feel like sleeping."  
"Why not?"

"I miss things. I don't like not knowing."

"What could possibly happen to you in six hours?"

"I don't know, but it could be anything." He offered. Blake nods, and rubbed Charlie's back with one hand slowly.

"Did they do something to you?"  
"You sound like my therapist." he commented.  
"I hope not. You're very rude to your therapist."

"Well he asks to many questions, and he thinks I'm a child."

"Is that why you don't tell him anything?"  
"Correct."  
"You can tell me." Charlie looks up at him with one eye closed and then pressed his chest back into Blake's chest with a small sigh.  
"No I can't."  
"Why not?"  
"Because I can't trust you."  
"I got you out of that place, didn't I?" There's a pause and Blake thinks he can hear Charlie chuckling at him.

"Why are you laughing? What's so funny?" He's so concerned because Charlie doesn't laugh. And he certainly doesn't anymore."

"Nothing, just...How you think of it." He sighed, after a moment.

"How I think of it?" Charlie nods his head, and presses it closer to Blake's chest.

"You say that you saved me...From there and you did, but you forget, Lucien, who put me there in the first place."  
"I was trying to protect you." Charlie pressed his nose into Blake's chest and breathed out.

"No. No you weren't." He murmured. "I always wished, that you could just have let me hang. But you couldn't." He murmured. "At first, I thought it was because you were going to help me, but…You weren't...Not at first. I begged you to help me." He breathed, "I pleaded on my hands and knees but you did nothing." He continued, "You told me, that Lawson would say sting me up and you were right." He whispered. "But that's not you. You aren't Lawson." He said, "You didn't say I was a sociopath to save me." He whispered. "You're not an all seeing all powerful God. You thought I killed him. You really thought that I had it in me to kill someone who I genuinely loved. You thought that I was enough, that I could sit on top of Lawson's chest and beat him to death with my bare hands." He whispered.  
"I'm sorry." He said, into Charlie's hair.

"I never said you weren't." Charlie murmured. "You didn't say that to protect me, like you tell people. Like you tell yourself. You knew what they were going to do to me. You did all of this getting me away from the hanging, away from jail, because you wanted me to suffer the way he did. You wanted me to pay for what I'd done and neither prison nor hanging was enough for you." He said, softly. Blake pulled Charlie closer to him, distressed by Charlie's correct statement. "That's why I feel okay. Okay coming to you, when I want to be held. When I want to cry. I know you won't turn me away." He breathed. "One might even say that you want me to rely on you for something." He said, quietly. "So you can feel better...About what you did to me." It's Blake's turn to cry now. He pressed his nose into Charlie's hair and cried faintly, he knew, he knew that all of this was his fault, but some how, hearing it from Charlie's mouth, in that far off monotone, made it so much worse. "You're no mystery to me, Lucien." he breathed. Charlie did nothing, just lay placidly against Blake while he cried. Oddly enough, he doesn't feel the need to cry, when right now he normally would. Blake cries for a long time, Charlie says nothing to comfort him, eventually it dies down to just sniffles, and Charlie whispered "I wish you let me hang."

It's quiet after that.

…

Blake never really says anything about their late night conversation. But he doesn't need to because Charlie can see the change in him. It's unsettling. He starts to drift away again, unable to find it within himself to anchor himself onto Blake when he was having a crisis of his own. The pillow, however, is a poor subsitute for Blake's chest.

…

"Why do you come to me?"Blake asked, softly, keeping his arms around Charlie tightly, ignoring the feeling of Charlie's hand gripping tightly in his shirt, as if he was trying to keep him here on earth with him.

"Because I like being with you." He whispered, softly. Blake says nothing at first, just pressed his nose into Charlie's hair.  
"Why? I helped them ruin you."  
"I always liked being with you." Charlie murmured. "That's what I was doing. In Munro's office, when that actress was killed."  
"When Hobart caught you."

"Yeah."

"I still don't know what you told Munro to keep your job."  
"Neither do I." He murmured. "I was trying to find something, something we could use to blackmail him. Shame it didn't work."  
"We had the diary."  
"He was reinstated a week later."  
"I know." He murmured.

"Why was Matthew even there? He didn't work for the police anymore." Charlie whispered, his slightly slack fingers tightening. "He should have been home.' He said, softly.

"I know." Blake murmured. "We all miss him." Charlie could feel the tears on his cheek again. "You can talk about him. If you want." Charlie scoffed though his tears, and then pressed his face into Blake's chest, saying nothing for a long period of time, until Blake is sure he has fallen asleep.

"He said my name."  
"What?"  
"Just before...When he was still awake, he said my name."  
"You were there?"  
"I was in the next room." He whispered. "I heard him come in, but I didn't say anything." He murmured. "He was persistant, if nothing else." Blake nodded, and started to rub Charlie's back slowly. "And there was yelling. Shouting, I came in but it was too late. He was down and Hobart was on top of him. I tried to pull him off but he got me in the face." he whispered, as Blake slowly ran a finger down the section of the scar that was visible just above his brow bone. "By the time I was up again, it was already too late. I tried to save him...But I couldn't. I tried to perform CPR until the ambulance arrived, but I couldn't." He whispered. Blake sighed softly, and ran a hand over Charlie's hair.  
"You tried your best."  
"It wasn't enonugh." He sighed, "He was dead and I was gone. Turns out they don't much like police killers in a mental hospital as much as they don't like them in jail." He whispered. Blake pulled him as close as he could.

"You should have told me."  
"And what would you have done? You visited me once a year, to tell me how much I'd taken from you, by the time you were trying to be my white knight, it was too late." Blake sighs softly and kept Charlie close to him.

"I know. I'm sorry."

"Why?"  
"Because you were right. I wanted you to hurt." Charlie nods, and kept close to Blake.  
"I know." He whispered, in an even slightly mocking tone. But then again, Blake might have imagined it because he can't think of Charlie speaking any other way then in the monotone he'd adopted over the last five years. They lie still after that, and Blake doesn't sleep until Charlie's hand falls slack in his shirt.

…

"Charlie can I ask you something." Charlie glanced up at Danny, and then looked back to his book.

"You can ask."

"How did you know that everything was going to play out the way that it did?"

"Pardon?"  
"How did you know you wouldn't die at the hospital? How did you know Blake would bring you here? How did you know that I'd try to...You know..."  
"Kill me?"  
"Yeah."  
"How did you set all that up?"Charlie let out a soft sigh and looked down at his book.

"The first part was the easiest. I just timed it so I took the pills about two minutes before a nurse came though. The rest of it….The rest of it was just luck." He admitted.

"I I'd taken the shot..."

"I'd be dead."  
"I know that. Do you really want to die?" Charlie looked at the book in his lap and pursed his lips briefly.

"Sometimes."  
"Before?"  
"Yes. Especially at the beginning."

"Why didn't you say anything?"  
"I tried, but no one listened to me. People really thought I could kill someone who I thought of as my friend." He said, thoughtfully. "People needed someone to blame. Munro gave me to them on a platter."

"I'm sorry."  
"You already apologized."  
"I know. I just…Wish that hadn't happened."  
"You and me both." He said, turning the page in his book.

"Are you happy here?" Charlie looked up, and then shrugged.  
"I'm better then I was."  
"Doesn't answer my question."

"I'm not sure I can remember how to be happy, Danny." he admitted. "But that's hardly the point, is it?" Danny sat next to him on the couch, and says little else until Jean calls them for tea.

…

"Charlie?" Jean asked softly, leaning against his doorframe. "Are you alright?" Charlie looked up at her, and wiped at his eyes gently.  
"I haven't been okay for a long time." He admitted, softly. Jean sat next to him on the bed.

"I know." She admitted, softly. "Is that why you've been sitting in the dark all afternoon?"

"I was here first. The dark came around me." Jean smiled slightly, and draped an arm over his shoulders.

"Lucien worries about you."

"Let him." He murmured.  
"I know you're hurting and angry, but he wants to help you." She said, softly. He looks up at her and then shakes his head.

"He thought I killed someone. You all did. You all thought I killed my friend. I paid for it. I paid for a murder I didn't commit." He said, softly. "And now I can't even have my own life." He said, softly. "So I play the part. Act like I'm getting better. But I'll let you in a secret, Mrs Beazley." Jean raised an eyebrow. "I don't feel much at all. I'm not angry with him. I'm not angry with Munro any more. I'm not angry with Hobart anymore. Maybe he was right. Maybe I really am a sociopath." He breathed. Jean pulled him close, but Charlie made no move to hug her back. "I wish I could still feel things other then sadness. That would be nice."

…

Sitting in the hospital, Charlie sat in the chair next to Blake's bed, picking at the dried blood on his fingers quietly. He's been sitting here in his blood stained shirt all afternoon, watchin Blake's chest rise and then fall. All after noon, he's been going over the events. Going over the details, looking for something that he missed. Something that would explain why anyone would shoot Blake. Charlie was no fool, he knew Blake had enimies, but this felt wrong to him. So foreign.

The whole situation feels surreal. One minute they'd been running errands and the next the doctor was on the floor and his hands were covered in the red wetness that belonged inside of him. "You saved him." Mattie said, from next to him. He looked up, and then back to his hands. He couldn't even bring himself to fit Blake's hand into his own.  
"Yeah. Maybe." He murured. "You heard the doctor. He might never wake up."

"He will. He would never ever leave you."

"Why do you say that?" Charlie asked, taking in a breath of air and breathing it out of his nose.

"He loves you. He wants what's best for you."  
"Good for him." Charlie said, softly

"You can hold his hand." Mattie breathed. Charlie shook his head no.

"I don't want to get blood on him." She smiled slightly, and put an arm over his shoulder. He doesn't shrug it off, but doesn't seem to look to happy about it either.

…

Charlie insists that he stay the night, but Mattie drags him home with her, insisting that he should put on clean clothes and take a shower, only finally convincing him that he should with the threat that Blake wouldn't be happy with him if he was covered in blood.

He eventually returns to the living room, hair unstyled and eyes slightly blood shot. He sat next to Danny on the couch, starring into the burning fire. Danny glanced at him and then back to the fire. "Do you ever want to run away?" he asked, softly. Charlie shrugged idly.

"On occasion."  
"Could you?"  
"If I wanted."  
"How would you go about it?"  
"I would not take my sleep aides, I would hoard them, I would put them in Blake's tea, wait for every one to go to bed, pack my suitcase, and then I would walk about, steal your bike, and drive as far away as fast as I could."  
"Why my bike?"  
"It would piss you off."  
"Clearly the most important part." Danny sighed, and looked at Charlie with sad eyes. Charlie smiled slightly, and then looked him in the eye.  
"I wouldn't, though."  
"Why not?"  
"He doesn't need to feel worse then he already does." He nods, and then sat back.

"That place really fucked you up." he commented, watching. Charlie scoffed slightly.  
"It's funny how things turn out." Was Charlie's only comment on the situation, before leaving to go upstairs to his bedroom.

…

It takes two days for Blake to be coherant. Charlie waits. The others have to work, Mrs Beazley cant bring herself to enter, so he stays. He sits on the chair with his knees pulled to his chin protectively, viewing his friend with cool grey eyes. Eventually one hand finds its way into Blakes on the bed. His ruined wrist presses gently against Blake's own. Neither of them speak. "I forgive you." he said, after a long moment. Blake shuts his eyes and smiles, falling back asleep. Charlie doesn't say anything else.

He never says it again, and he's not sure if Blake remembers when he wakes up, but he's alright with that. He does notice, however, that Blake stops apologizing in the night.

And for him, that's enough.


End file.
